Pressure on the Wound

Insolence, 
A dagger that sliced my image long ago.
It was a painful demise,
Yet I continue living,
As a ghost of expectation.
 
I often glare at the chalk outline, 
And a sympathetic mind asks the simple question,
How much did I lose to suit the masses?
Wisdom, charm, confidence, happiness,
All sacrificed to comfort fragile intellects.

Ignorant of the damage branded,
They inflict amusement. 
Shielding insecurity with desperate grins
as I turn to my own demons for clarity.

I know this, yet I subject,
Just to continue this ill-fated crusade.
A crusade once known as kindness.